by David Weber
Cayleb and Nahrmahn looked at one another and Domynyk Staynair swore softly over the com.
“I think Nahrmahn’s right, Your Majesty,” Howsmyn said quietly. “It had to be some kind of timing mechanism, at least in the magazines. I don’t know what kind of timer—it could have been something as simple as a lit candle shoved into a powder cask and allowed to burn down—but I think that’s the only explanation for how they could have come that long after the main explosion but still have been sequenced that closely.”
“Damn.” Cayleb shoved up out of his chair and crossed to the window, folding his arms across his chest while he stared out towards the invisible island and the pall of smoke still hanging above it. “How did they get in?”
“We’ll probably never know, Your Majesty,” Nahrmahn told him heavily. “Obviously, our security measures weren’t stringent enough after all, though.”
“I don’t see how we could make them much tighter, Your Highness,” Wave Thunder objected. “We’ve always recognized the powder mills would be a priority target for any Temple Loyalist intent on seriously damaging us. We’ve got round-the-clock Marine sentries on the gates and every building, and the magazines themselves are kept locked except when powder’s actually being transferred. Keys to the locks are held only by the mill’s commanding officer and the current officer of the watch. When powder transfers are ordered, they’re always overseen by a commissioned officer with a Marine security and safety detachment, and additional keys have to be signed out individually by that officer, who’s also responsible for their return. And when any of the magazines are opened for transfers, we have sentries on all the other magazines, as well. Beyond that, nobody’s allowed into the facility unless he actually works there or has clear, verified authorization for his visit. Any visitor’s accompanied at all times by someone assigned to the mill, and regular and random patrols sweep the perimeter fence.”
“My comment wasn’t a criticism, Bynzhamyn,” Nahrmahn said, “simply an observation. Whether we can make them tighter or not, they obviously weren’t sufficiently tight to prevent what just happened. I do think it would be a good idea to assign at least a couple of remotes to each of our remaining powder mills, though. We might not’ve been able to do anything quickly enough to prevent what happened at Hairatha even if Owl had been watching and realized something was amiss before the explosions, but at least we’d be in a much better position after the fact to figure out what actually did happen and who was responsible for it. And that might put us in a better position to keep it from happening again.”
“You think it’s part of an organized operation?” Cayleb asked. “That they may attempt to blow up our other powder mills, as well?”
“I don’t know.” Nahrmahn shook his head, eyes intent as he considered the question. “All it would really take would be one truly convinced Temple Loyalist in the wrong place. For all we know, that’s what happened here—the fact that some sort of timer was used may indicate we’re looking at the work of a single individual or a small number of individuals. Or it may not indicate anything of the sort; perhaps it was a larger group that used timers for all four of the primary explosions so its members could get out again. If it was a larger group, that would seem to up the chances of additional, similar attempts. We just don’t know. But I don’t see where keeping a closer eye on the remaining mills could hurt anything, and it might just help quite a lot.”
“Agreed.” Cayleb nodded. “Owl, please implement Prince Nahrmahn’s suggestion and assign sufficient remotes to keep all of our remaining powder mills under observation.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” Cayleb said, and Howsmyn sighed heavily over the link.
“What is it, Ehdwyrd?”
“I was just thinking that, terrible as this is from every perspective, it gets even worse when I think about Urvyn’s having walked into the middle of it, Your Majesty,” the ironmaster said heavily. “It’s going to devastate Ahlfryd when he finds out. For that matter, it’s hitting me damned hard. But that’s from a purely personal, selfish viewpoint. We needed him, needed him pushing the envelope and constantly coming up with new ideas, like that breech-loading rifle of his.”
“I know,” Cayleb sighed. “I know.” He shook his head. “And speaking of personal viewpoints, think about his family. They didn’t lose just him, but his cousin, too.” He shook his head again, his expression hard. “I want the people responsible for planning this. I want them badly.”
“Then we’ll just have to see what we can do about finding them for you, Your Majesty,” Prince Nahrmahn said.
.VI.
Shakym, Princedom of Tanshar
“All right, you lazy bastards! On your feet! Your little pleasure cruise just came to an end!”
Sir Gwylym Manthyr’s head twitched up at the raucous chorus of shouts. He could see virtually nothing in the hot, stinking tween-decks space, but he heard the thud of hammers as the wedges which secured the hatch battens were driven out. Boots clumped and thumped on the deck overhead, other voices bawled orders, and heavy chain rattled metallically in the darkness around him.
I guess I really can sleep just about anywhere, he thought. Must be Shakym. About time, even for this tub.
He knew very little about Shakym beyond the name; only that it was the major seaport of the Princedom of Tanshar and that it lay across the four-hundred-and-fifty-mile-wide mouth of the Gulf of Tanshar from Gairlahs in the Duchy of Fern, the most northwesterly of Dohlar’s provinces. If this was Shakym, they were officially in West Haven, little more than five hundred miles from the Temple Lands border and fourteen hundred miles from Lake Pei.
“Sir?” The voice was faint, barely audible, and his right hand gently stroked the matted hair of the head lying in his lap.
“It seems we’re here, Master Svairsmahn.” He kept his own voice as close to normal as he could, but it was hard when the boy’s bony hand reached up and gripped his wrist. “I imagine we’re going to have some light in a few minutes.”
“Can’t come too soon for me, Sir,” the midshipman said gamely. He grunted with effort, shoving himself up into a sitting position, and Manthyr heard a retching sound. It went on for several seconds before it stopped.
“Sorry about that, Sir,” Svairsmahn said.
“You’re not the only one who’s fouled himself down here, Master Svairsmahn,” Manthyr told him. “Not your fault, either. Chain a man where he can’t move and leave him there long enough, and it’s going to happen.”
“True enough, Sir Gwylym,” Captain Maikel Krugair’s voice came out of the dark. “And just think how much fun these bastards are going to have washing down all this shit—if you’ll pardon the expression, Sir—once we’re out of here.”
The man who’d captained HMS Avalanche sounded positively cheerful at the thought, and Manthyr heard other laughter from men he couldn’t see.
“There is that bit in the Writ about reaping what you sow, Cap’n,” someone else observed. “An’ shit fer shitheads is about right, t’ my way of thinking.”
There was more laughter, and then the first batten was thrown aside and bright morning sunlight streamed down into the cavernous, stinking hold.
“Hold your noise, you fucking scum!” someone shouted. “Keep shut, if you know what’s good for you!”
“Why?” a Charisian voice shot back derisively. “What’re you going to do? Tell the Grand Inquisitor on us?!”
Laughter hooted in the stinking hold, and Manthyr’s heart swelled with weeping pride in his men.
“Think it’s funny, do you?” the voice which had shouted snarled. “We’ll see how you like it in a month or so!”
Manthyr looked around him, squinting his eyes against the light as more battens were heaved aside. Naiklos Vahlain lay beside him, blinking groggily. Manthyr didn’t like the valet’s sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Vahlain was ten years older than he was, and he’d started without the inherent toughness a life at sea had given
Manthyr. No man in the world could have more courage and spirit, but Vahlain’s body was beginning to fail him.
Beyond Vahlain, as the light explored their fetid prison, he saw other scarecrows, many of them lying in pools of their own filth. Dysentery was stalking among them, taking its own toll, and his heart was grimly certain that at least some of those still lying motionless would never move again.
When he thought about it, it was almost a miracle so many of them were still alive. The six five-days since they’d left Gorath had been the most brutal and crushing of Manthyr’s life, and that was saying something for a Charisian seaman. But, then, whatever men might say, the sea was never truly cruel. She simply didn’t care. It took men to practice cruelty. Men who deliberately and knowingly gave themselves to cruelty’s service, and it didn’t matter whether they claimed to do it in the name of God or the name of Shan-wei herself. What mattered was the sickness and the hunger and the perversion eating away whatever it was inside them that might once have made them truly human.
Things had gotten a little better after Twyngyth. Manthyr didn’t really know why, although he’d come to the conclusion they probably owed at least some of it to Father Myrtan. The fair-haired young upper-priest seemed no less fervent in his faith than Vyktyr Tahrlsahn, and Manthyr doubted Father Myrtan would hesitate to put any heretic to the Question or to the Punishment. The difference between him and Tahrlsahn was that Tahrlsahn would enjoy it; Father Myrtan would simply do it because that was what his beliefs required of him. Manthyr couldn’t decide which of those was actually worse, when he came down to it, but at least Father Myrtan didn’t delight in the sort of small souled brutality which had killed almost a dozen of Manthyr’s men in the first five-day and a half of this nightmare journey.
Oh, stop trying to analyze things, Gwylym, he told himself. You know perfectly well what it really was. Even that asshole Tahrlsahn finally realized none of you were going to live the rest of the way to Zion if he kept it up. Pity he figured it out. It would’ve been so fitting for him to have to face Clyntahn and explain how he’d come to use up all of the Grand Asshole’s “heretics” before he got home with them! Hell, he’d probably have gotten to take our place!
He let himself dwell for a moment or two on the delightful image of Tahrlsahn facing his own Inquisition, then brushed it aside. Whether Tahrlsahn faced justice in this life or the next really didn’t matter. Face it he would, one way or the other, and for now, duty called, and duty—and fidelity—to his men were really all he had left.
“Wakey, wakey, Naiklos!” he called as cheerily as he could, shaking the valet gently. “They say our cruise is over. Back on the road again, I suppose.”
“Yes, Sir.” Vahlain shook himself, struggling gamely up into a sitting position and fastidiously straightening the remaining rags of his clothing. “I’ll see to making reservations at a decent hotel, Sir.”
“You do that,” Manthyr said affectionately, resting one hand on the older man’s slight shoulder. “Nothing but the best, mind you! Clean linen and warming pans for me and Master Svairsmahn. And be sure you pick the wine; can’t trust my judgment about that, you know.”
“Of course, Sir.” Vahlain managed a death’s-head smile, and Manthyr squeezed his shoulder before he turned back to Svairsmahn.
The midshipman smiled, too, but it looked even more ghastly on him. Vahlain was over sixty; Lainsair Svairsmahn was not yet thirteen, and thirteen-year-old boys—even thirteen-year-old boys who were king’s officers—weren’t supposed to be one-legged, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, half-starved, wracked by fever and nausea, and filled with the knowledge of what awaited all of them.
Three Temple Guardsmen clattered down the steep ladder from the upper deck. Manthyr was pretty sure they’d been chosen for their duty as punishment for some lapse in duty, and he heard them gagging on the stench despite the bandannas tied across their noses and mouths. Three days locked in the hold of an undersized coasting brig tended to produce quite an aroma, he thought grimly.
“On your feet!” one of them snarled. “You, there!” He kicked one of the seamen lying closest to the hatch. “You first!”
He tossed the seaman a key, then stood back, tapping the two-foot truncheon in his right hand against the side of his boot while the Charisian fumbled with the padlock. He managed to get it open, and iron grated and rattled as the chain which had been run through ringbolts on the deck and then through the irons on every man’s ankles was released. He pushed himself clumsily to his still-chained feet and staggered towards the ladder.
“Get a move on, whoreson!” the Guardsman sneered, prodding him viciously with the truncheon. “Can’t be late for your date in Zion!”
The Charisian almost fell, but he caught himself on the ladder with his manacled hands and climbed slowly and painfully up it while the cursing Guardsmen kicked and cuffed and beat his fellows to their feet. They made no distinction between officer, noncom, and enlisted, and neither did the Charisians, anymore. Those distinctions had been erased in the face of their common privation, and all that remained were Charisians, doing whatever they could to help their companions survive another day.
Which is stupid of us, Manthyr thought as he forced himself to his feet and then bent to half assist and half lift young Svairsmahn. All we’re doing is prolonging our own punishment until we get to Zion. If we had any sense, we’d figure out how to hang ourselves tonight.
That dark thought had come to him with increasing frequency, and he braced himself against its seduction while he slipped his arm around Svairsmahn’s shoulders and helped him towards the ladder. However tempting it might be, it wasn’t for him—not while a single one of his men lived. There might not be one damned thing he could do for any of them, but one thing he couldn’t do was to abandon them. And they, the miserable, starving, sick, gutsy bastards that they were, would never give the Inquisition the satisfaction of giving up.
AUGUST,
YEAR OF GOD 895
.I.
Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk
“I could wish they’d just go ahead and get all of this settled,” King Zhames II grumbled across the dinner table.
The king’s kingdom, despite its respectable size, was not one of the great realms of Safehold. In fact, it was on the penurious side, which was one reason his own father had arranged his marriage to one of Hektor of Corisande’s cousins. King Styvyn had had hopes that the relatively wealthy island princedom would see its way to making investments in his longed-for project to turn the port city of Ferayd into the kernel for a Delferahkan merchant marine which, in alliance with that of Corisande, might actually have been capable of challenging Charis’ maritime dominance. Alas, it had never been any more than a hope—a dream, really—although Prince Fronz and, later, Hektor had been relatively generous in loans over the years. Not that Zhames had entertained any illusions that it had been out of the goodness of Hektor’s heart, whatever might have motivated his father. Hektor of Corisande had always invested his marks wisely, and it had been Zhames Olyvyr Rayno’s distant kinship to an up-and-coming bishop of the Order of Schueler which had been the true reason for Hektor’s generosity.
Not that Wyllym Rayno had ever done a damned thing for Delferahk, Zhames reflected grumpily. He’d been willing enough to use Zhames as a go-between to Hektor once or twice, and he’d helped arrange the remittance of the interest on a couple of the king’s more pressing loans from the Temple, but that was about it. And now there was this mess.
“Sooner or later it will all blow over, I’m sure, dear,” Queen Consort Hailyn said serenely from her own side of the table. The two of them dined alone together more often than not, less for any deep romantic reasons than because state dinners were expensive. At the moment, their three grown sons were elsewhere, no doubt entertaining themselves in some fashion of which a dutiful mother would not have approved. The queen consort had grown increasingly accustomed to that over the years. In fact, she’d grown accustome
d to a great many things and taken most of them placidly in stride.
“Ha!” Zhames shook his head. Then, for added emphasis, he shook his finger across the table, as well. “Ha! You mark my words, Hailyn, this is going to get still worse before it gets better! And we’re already stuck in the middle of it, no thanks to dear, distant Cousin Wyllym!”
“Hush.”
Few things could disturb Queen Hailyn’s even-tempered world, but her husband’s occasional criticisms of Mother Church—and especially of the Inquisition—were among them. She looked around the dining room, then relaxed as she realized there’d been no servants to hear the injudicious remark.
“Saying things like that isn’t going to help, dear,” she said much more severely than she normally spoke to her royal spouse. “And I really wish you’d be a little more sparing with them. Especially”—she looked straight across the table—“these days.”
Zhames grimaced, but he didn’t protest, which was itself a sign of the times. Despite the distant nature of his relationship to the Archbishop of Chiang-wu, he’d never cherished many illusions about the inner workings of the vicarate. There’d been times when he’d been hard put to visualize exactly how those workings could serve the interests of God, but he’d been wise enough to keep his nose out of matters that were none of his affair.
Until, of course, his wife’s cousin dumped his two surviving children into Zhames’ lap and simultaneously dumped the king into the Temple’s business right up to his royal neck.
It had seemed like a situation with no downside when Hektor first requested asylum for his daughter and younger son. The request had come with promises of a very attractive subsidy in return for the king’s hospitality. And given the fact that Hektor had become the Temple’s anointed paladin in its struggle against the Charisian heretics, it had offered Zhames an opportunity to cement his relations with that dratted distant kinsman of his, as well. It wasn’t likely to make his relationship with Charis any worse, either, given that business in Ferayd. And in a worst-case situation (from Hektor’s perspective, that was) it would give Zhames physical control of the rightful ruler of Corisande. Best of all, he’d had absolutely no responsibility for getting the royal refugees to Talkyra; all he’d had to do was offer them reasonable quarters (or as close to it as the old-fashioned fortress of his “palace” permitted) if they succeeded in getting there.